


The Wings Of Love

by Esperata



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Birds, Carrier Pigeons, Letters, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pen Pals, Pining, Shakespeare Quotations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-06 20:11:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18224876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esperata/pseuds/Esperata
Summary: Oswald inherits Bridgit's aviary and finds his own form of solace with the birds.For the Nygmobblepot week prompt: Mutual Pining





	1. Chapter 1

Oswald had never really considered keeping birds.

Actually he had once upon a time. He recalled seeing Falcone cooing over chickens and the thought had popped into his head that perhaps he too should take such an interest. However only the briefest interactions with the birds had convinced him that the pursuit wasn’t for him.

So it was something of a surprise now for him to find himself with an aviary of pigeons.

It hadn’t been a conscious choice on his part. Selina had been looking for Bridgit at the Iceberg and had apparently been at the end of her patience with her friend. The ultimatum she’d left for him to pass on was that she had enough to do taking care of her foster cats, she wasn’t going to be looking after Bridgit’s birds anymore.

Oswald had dutifully agreed to pass on the message, albeit with a few complaints that he wasn’t a telegraph operator, and had actually taken the time to relay the communication next time he’d seen Firefly. She’d been blasé to say the least, not caring if the birds were released to their fate or left to starve.

It had left Oswald with something of a problem. He had no way to contact Selina again considering his current relationship with the Sirens amounted to an agreement to shoot on sight. He wasn’t about to risk his life just to pass on a message about some pigeons. However he found the idea of the creatures being abandoned didn’t sit well with him either.

Obviously he could instruct one of his men to go release them – let them take their chance back in the wild of Gotham – but he knew that birds kept caged never transitioned back to independence easily. It would be akin to sentencing them to death to release them without any acclimatisation and he couldn’t do that to animals who had never done any harm to anyone.

However the idea of instructing one of his men to visit the aviary twice daily to feed them, let alone spend any time preparing the birds for release, was something he couldn’t countenance. If word got round that he was too soft to let a few feathered pests suffer then he’d have mob bosses making moves all over his territory.

Which was how he found himself secretly visiting the rooftop cage with a bag of bird seed.

The first time had been perfunctory. A tide over solution while he contemplated who he might enlist to take the birds. A zoo? A pigeon fancier group? Both unlikely for such unkempt ragged street birds.

It was hardly a priority for him to research the problem, especially when other matters seemed to crop up demanding immediate attention, and before he knew it he was settled into his routine of visiting the birds.

To his surprise he found himself looking forward to the trip out, the break away from the concerns of running his organisation, and the peace of just half an hour without interruption. He’d previously issued stern instructions not to be disturbed during this time, primarily to avoid the embarrassment he’d feel should his act of charity be discovered, but now it was a blessed relief.

He was also discovering that they were not simply street vermin as he had supposed. Each one was unique and he quickly learnt to recognise their personalities. The first time he named one he knew they were now _his_ birds. If Bridgit ever did try to take them back he’d fight her tooth and claw for them.

More than that though, they were his confidantes. There was no-one else he could openly air his grievances to without being concerned the words would somehow find their way to the wrong ears. So he talked to the pigeons. He chattered to them as he fed them and occasionally risked bringing one out to exercise.

To his surprise they made no attempt to escape. In fact they seemed almost unwilling to fly even to the next rooftop and he worried perhaps their muscles were deteriorating from being confined. So the next day he took a cardboard box with him and – with some considerable awkwardness and discomfort – packaged one particular favourite up and transported it down the fire escape and up to the next building along. He laughed in delight as the bird took one look around and then flew directly back to the coop.

Oswald was winded himself by the time he’d climbed back as well but he cooed happily to the bird and gave her extra feed before guiding her back into the cage.

He determined after that to incorporate more exercise into his daily care routine for them but that required assistance. He could not cart pigeon boxes up and down buildings twice a day. Yet he didn’t want anyone to get the impression he was _fond_ of the birds.

It proved simple enough to spin an angle around his adoption of the creatures though and rumours quickly spread of Penguin having trained birds to spy for him. It didn’t hurt that his enemies became anxious now whenever they saw a pigeon. Oswald only actually allowed Gabe to ever come with him to handle the birds, knowing the thug didn’t have the imagination to understand what Oswald might really be whispering to the birds. He was just clever enough to do precisely as instructed: carry the boxes to the van, drive them to the outskirts, and release the birds.

Penguin arranged for a new aviary to be built on the roof of the Iceberg – much nicer than the cages they’d previously lived in – and every morning he’d go up to see them and choose which were to go out for the day. It was his routine to talk to them and he found great comfort in the act as he steeled himself for the day. Gabe kept well out of earshot knowing the penalty for eavesdropping.

Some of what he said naturally enough concerned his work and his anticipation of possible betrayals or retributions – it wouldn’t hurt if those snippets leaked out – but a lot of what he spoke about was rather more personal. Because if there was one issue Oswald had bemoaned at length about to his birds, it was his hopeless infatuation.

A few birds fluttered down in anticipation of caresses as he began his daily lament about the Riddler and he absentmindedly petted them. They were smart birds. It hadn’t taken them long to figure out that hearing murmurs about Riddler led to extra treats and the likelihood of a flight out.

It was as he was pushed for time one morning, briskly selecting his flyers and inwardly mourning his lack of time to talk, that the idea came to him.

He’d just caught Lucy and was cooing as he deposited her in the box when a rolled up receipt flew in as well. Tsking at the rubbish he pulled it out only to hesitate. The coil was clearly the end of a till roll. Blank and tightly curled despite its journey through the streets. It reminded him forcibly of the old movies where secret messages would be sent by pigeon.

It was the perfect solution he realised. He could write out his laments and then simply attach them to a pigeon before sending it on its way in a cathartic release. That would save him time in the mornings when he was inevitably rushed and he could retrieve the evidence later when he had more leisure at the final check in of the day. There was the added benefit too of being able to note down his grievances at any point they occurred to him.

He laughed softly to himself at the scheme. He’d get the staff to store all the old scraps of till roll. This could work out very well for him.


	2. Chapter 2

Oswald’s first scrawled messages were innocuous enough and he was careful to leave no identifying marks, just in case they got lost en route. His habit of writing in small capitals prevented anyone discovering anything from his handwriting either.

He was aware he was slightly paranoid but one didn’t get to his position being anything else. Still, as he relaxed into the routine, he allowed himself to be a little more explicit in his notes. Whereas originally he’d have simply written ‘HES SO HANDSOME’, now he found himself almost rhapsodising.

HIS EYES ARE LIKE MELTED CHOCOLATE – RICH, WARM AND SINFUL

On the one hand he felt a sense of embarrassment over his actions. Too romantically inept to actually say anything to Ed, he was reduced to pouring his heart out in notes like some hopeless child.

I COULD LISTEN TO HIM FOR HOURS. HE’S SO INTELLIGENT.

Was this any way for the King of Gotham to behave? He was the Penguin for heaven’s sake! He’d faced down threats three times his size with no more than a wicked grin. Yet he couldn’t look Ed in the eye for a minute at a time.

I’D DO ANYTHING FOR HIM. ANYTHING AT ALL.

None of this made him stop though. It was too easy a way to find some relief for his heart ache. And it wasn’t as if simply talking to Ed was a viable option anyway. Every time he tried to say something complimentary he’d trip over his own silver tongue.

HE COULD NEVER LOVE ME. NO ONE COULD

The very idea of Ed loving him back was laughable. Oswald was under no delusions. He had his skills certainly but attractiveness was not a quality he possessed. There was a reason he’d earned the nickname ‘Penguin’ after all. That was another reason he so enjoyed sitting with his birds though. They at least didn’t judge him by appearance. His imperfections didn’t phase them at all.

And they never mocked his soft heart either.

It felt heavier that ever as he dragged himself up to the rooftop terrace that evening. Ed had been in earlier and Oswald could have kicked himself for his reaction. The idea of how hopeless his feelings were had been eating at him for hours and when Ed had had the audacity to act in a friendly manner, Oswald had snapped at him like a wounded animal.

There had been a second where he was sure he saw hurt in those beautiful brown eyes before Riddler had straightened with a scoff and turned away from him deliberately.

People were just so difficult. Why did Ed have to pretend to like him? Well, clearly so he’d have Penguin’s compliance for his latest scheme. Was it Ed’s fault that every faux show of friendship simply turned the knife further in Oswald’s side?

Oswald wished he could simply ban Riddler from the Lounge and be done with it. But he knew he didn’t have the resolve to do without the man in his life entirely. It may hurt but he still lived for those sights of long limbs sliding gracefully through the crowds of minions like an ice breaker.

He’d apologise tomorrow, he resolved. Assuming Ed came back. He always had before. Surely Oswald’s outburst hadn’t been that severe had it? But what if this was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back? What would Oswald do without Ed waltzing in and out of his life like a sunbeam?

His thoughts all came to a screeching halt as he focused on the scrap of paper he was currently removing from the pigeon’s leg. It was the same one as he’d sent out the morning, he was sure, however it no longer just had his writing on it.

Casting a quick glance about to make sure he was alone, he began again to detach the note with trembling fingers. Taking a calming breath he unravelled it, looking first to see his own words still printed on the one side: HE COULD NEVER LOVE ME. NO ONE COULD. He took another deep breath before turning the paper over.

_Don’t think that. You have a romantic soul anyone would be lucky to win._

His first reaction was to choke back a sob. It was just the sort of thing his mother would have said to him and he couldn’t help but smile at the words. Then the implications of the note struck him with an icy spear of dread. Someone had read his most private words.

And more than that, it sounded very like they’d read several of his missives.

Oswald suddenly found himself in a quandary. His instinct was to kill whoever this was who knew his vulnerability but that was ridiculous. Firstly because he didn’t know who they were and secondly because they didn’t actually know who _he_ was.

So what was he supposed to do? Stop writing? Try to track the bird’s flights and stops? Or, the ever more tempting third option, open a communication with this unknown individual.

He licked his lips as he considered that. On the one hand he knew next to nothing about this person. Yet perhaps he knew the only thing that matters. They cared. They cared enough to respond to an anonymous note without any thought to receiving anything back.

Of course the most likely scenario was he’d never hear from this person again. The bird had probably made a random stop, attracted perhaps by some crumbs, and happenstance had led this individual into their path. Even if the stopping point was a regular place to get a drink or pick up treats there was no guaranteeing it was frequented by the same person every day. Or even that they’d care to respond to message via pigeon every day.

Yet what did Oswald have to lose? It made no difference if he addressed his laments to a person or as abstract thoughts. And this way perhaps he could get some sympathy and kindness. It wasn’t a ready commodity in Gotham, especially for people like him.

Thus he resolved that, starting tomorrow, he’d write to his new found pen friend.


	3. Chapter 3

After the awkwardness of sending an actual addressed note back – DEAR FRIEND. THANK YOU FOR YOUR WORDS. I MAY NOT BELIEVE THEM BUT I APPRECIATE THEM – he had not been sure whether he’d receive another reply, or even whether he wanted to, but it had been the start of an actual communication.

The reply the next day had made Oswald’s head spin. His pen friend had chosen to address the note to _My little bird,_ and it caused Penguin to panic for a minute until he recognised the writer was addressing the carrier pigeon. As he breathed in a sigh of relief he couldn’t help but smile at the irony of it. If they knew who it was they were writing to would they write so kindly? Would they write at all?

Either way, Oswald determined never to find out. He would let nothing spoil this new relationship. It felt so much better to engage in an actual exchange of views rather than simply sending his thoughts into a void and Oswald couldn’t deny that he was happier.

Naturally enough his interlocutor was curious about the person he was pining over but he was also interested in hearing why Oswald thought it was hopeless. There were a number of reasons he could give to that second question but he settled on the most basic and insurmountable.

HE’S A HE AND SO AM I. WHILE THAT IS GOOD FROM MY POINT OF VIEW, HE ONLY LOOKS AT WOMEN.

It did him good occasionally to remember this and it made him feel less bad about himself. Edward wasn’t specifically spurning him, it was simply that he had no interest in men. The reply when he received it gave him pause though.

_Little bird, don’t be so sure. Every rule has its exception. I would have sworn I was straight until I met the man who turned my head._

There was a lot to take in from that message. His friend was a man. He hadn’t been sure about that and a part of him had been vaguely imagining he was somehow talking to his departed mother.

Also, the man was seemingly quite open about sexual orientations even if there was a clear implication he hadn’t always been. Oswald found himself wondering about the man who’d had such an impact on this person’s life. Who’d thrown him for such a loop that he’d re-examined his whole attitude to relationships?

Whoever he was, Oswald found himself feeling a sense of gratitude to him. At least someone out there was willing to accept a different sort of love and was lucky enough to find it to boot.

I AM GLAD YOU HAVE SOMEONE. YOU DESERVE HAPPINESS. I AM NOT SURE I DO. BUT EVEN IF MY DEAR HEART CHANGED HIS MIND, HE WOULD NOT LOOK AT ME.

It hurt to acknowledge but it was a painful necessity and he put it from his mind with a practised force as he got on with his busy day. He managed not to think about Edward for the majority until the man himself made an appearance in the Iceberg Lounge, looking somewhat downcast. Oswald found himself unable to resist approaching him.

Stopping to collect a couple of martinis from the bar, he cautiously joined him.

“Riddler.”

“Penguin.”

The reply was not entirely encouraging but by their standards it was friendly enough so he took a seat.

“Something’s bothering you.” Oswald didn’t bother making it a question. It would only insult both of them. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Edward looked at him then and Oswald felt awkward under his appraisal. It always happened this way. All he could think was how Ed must see him: sharp nosed, lame, ill proportioned. Unlovable.

“Do you think people like us get happily ever afters?”

The question was so far from what Oswald was expecting that he simply stared at Ed blankly for several long heart beats. Then he pulled himself together with an effort. No doubt Ed had some new woman in his life. No-one knew better than Oswald how the man kept trying for that picture perfect romance.

“Happily ever afters are only in fairytales Edward,” he admonished. “They don’t happen in real life and certainly not in a place like Gotham.”

He risked a glance over and saw Riddler was now staring morosely into his glass. He softened his tone, drawn against his will to offer some comfort.

“But I see no reason people like us couldn’t have as happy a life as anyone else. If you prick us, do we not bleed?”

That brought a smirk back onto Riddler’s face.

“Shakespeare Ozzie?”

“Don’t mock the bard. His stories are certainly more applicable to modern life than childish fairytales.”

“Are you thinking Hamlet? Something rotten in the state of Gotham?”

Oswald smiled, happy as always to be having an intelligent conversation with Eddie. There was really no-one else he could discuss literature with and if he had to endure a little heart ache for the privilege then so be it.

“I was contemplating Much Ado About Nothing actually. Since your question was to do with romance.”

“Hhmm.” Ed turned his gaze across the room as he thought. “And did you empathise with Claudio and Hero?”

“Those wet rags? No,” Oswald scoffed. “Everyone knows the true heroes of that play are Beatrice and Benedick.”

“The rivals turned lovers?” Ed’s gaze swung back to fix on Oswald again and Penguin found himself floundering. Luckily he didn’t have to say anything as Edward continued. “Surely there’s a poignancy about Claudio though. Realising too late the pure love he’s thrown away. Then he’s lucky enough to get a second chance.”

Oswald didn’t know where to look and settled on his martini glass. Shame it was empty. He could do with a drink. Why did Edward always have to bring everything back to that woman?

“Do we really have to discuss Isabella again?” he bit out. Was it so much to want a peaceful evening?

“Isabella?”

“Yes. Your second chance. I haven’t forgotten Edward. There’s no need to keep reminding me.” He forced himself to his feet, ignoring the jarring pain as his leg reminded him he’d been on it too long that day. “If you’ll excuse me. I have some very pressing business to attend to this evening.”

He didn’t look back as he made his way through the crowds and into the back rooms. From there he headed determinedly upwards until he reached the blessed solitude of the rooftop, with only the cooing from the aviary softening the city noises.

The carrier pigeon was waiting for him on the ledge and he felt his tension ease as he gently pet her, easily prying the note from her leg.

_Little bird. If he does not see the beauty inside then he is not worth your affection._

Oswald couldn’t stop the tears from flowing.


	4. Chapter 4

Oswald didn’t know how to react to such a message. His night was torn by dreams of his mother comforting him, interspersed with flashes of Ed singing her lullaby to him, and by the time he pulled himself out of bed he didn’t feel at all rested.

Life would be so much simpler if he could just forget Ed. Look for someone else. Someone who would appreciate the love Oswald had to offer. But he knew that it was hopeless and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried through the years. At this point he was not sure even death would stop him loving Edward Nygma.

Standing on the roof of the Iceberg Lounge helped to clear his mind. It was a cold day with rain in the air but Oswald still fetched the day’s flyers ready for Gabe to drive them out. He perched on the ledge with a pencil, hoping the suitable response would come to him now. His friend deserved a reply after all.

MY DEAR FRIEND. I AM NOT WHAT YOU THINK. I HURT HIM. THERE IS NO REASON HE SHOULD THINK WELL OF ME AGAIN.

He paused as he wondered how he could possibly explain their tortured history in no more than two lines. Then his thoughts returned to his conversation with Edward yesterday and he knew.

Pulling his phone out he looked up the relevant text and browsed through until he found the most appropriate line.

LADY HERO HATH BEEN FALSELY ACCUSED, THE PRINCE AND CLAUDIO MIGHTILY ABUSED AND DON JOHN IS THE AUTHOR OF ALL.

Oswald had no idea if his pen friend would recognise the bard but he had no doubt the man would source the quote quickly enough. Whether he’d understand was another matter but he felt it was sufficient explanation for now.

He watched Gabe carry the bird boxes down the stairs and then turned to look out over the city. Ordinarily he’d stand there a while, soaking in the familiarity of home and settling his mind ready for the day, but the rain was getting heavier and he wasn’t fool enough to stay out in it. With a sigh he headed off to begin his own work.

By afternoon the rain had turned into a storm. The winds were blowing fiercely and Oswald found he couldn’t concentrate. He had no idea what his pigeons would do in such weather. Would they do the sensible thing and seek shelter until the weather improved? Or would they battle on in an attempt to reach their aviary here?

He cursed himself for not checking the forecast. If something happened to those birds he would only have himself to blame. As the afternoon wore on and darkness descended early, he sat biting his nails. He’d been sending a man up every ten minutes to check which birds had returned, not even caring if they saw a note, but unable to make the journey himself frequently enough. The wet weather was already playing havoc with his damaged joints and moving that far simply wasn’t an option.

By the time the club opened, all but one bird was safely locked away. It was ridiculous now to imagine she’d return this evening. Even in this light polluted city it was too dark and the rain had settled into nearly horizontal lashing sheets.

He knew he shouldn’t get so worked up over a bird but he couldn’t help it. She was one of his regular flyers and had always been among the first to welcome him in the morning. Part of him suggested he should mingle with the patrons to take his mind of it but he stubbornly refused. He would not treat her welfare as anything trivial. He would not be seen to enjoy himself until he knew what had happened to her.

Silently he prayed that come the morning she would be waiting for him patiently on the ledge as usual.

“Boss?” One of the bar staff knocked. “You have a visitor.”

“Who is it? I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Oswald?” Penguin started at the familiar voice. “I have something of yours.”

“Riddler.” Oswald grabbed his cane and leant heavily on it as he crossed to unlock the door. Looking up at the man brought the same mix of pleasure and pain but then his eyes dropped to the box in his hands and he frowned. “What’s that?”

“If I could…?” Ed gestured inside with his occupied hands and Oswald awkwardly stood aside. He followed and watched with curiosity as Ed deposited the box on his desk and then opened it to draw out-

“Lucy!” Oswald moved to him and reached out happily to stroke her soft feathers. “How did you-” His eyes fell to her leg and he realised abruptly his message was gone. Fear seized him and he turned worried eyes onto his guest.

Who slowly pulled the paper from his pocket.

Oswald flushed and hurriedly tried to work out what Ed knew. This was in part answered by his visitor seconds later.

“I thought it might be you but I wasn’t sure until I got this message.”

He looked up at Riddler in panic. Had this whole thing been an elaborate trap? Setting him up for yet more rejection and humiliation?

“I wasn’t thinking of Kristen in the role of love thrown away," Ed continued. "Nor Isabella as the second chance.”

“Then… what were you thinking?”

Edward’s smile derailed any coherent thought Oswald might have been forming. The fact that it was directed at him… now…

“You little bird,” Ed murmured and Oswald nearly collapsed at the endearment. “I nearly lost you once. I don’t intend to again.”

“But… you… he…” He tripped over his words as he realised that Ed was holding him up by the elbows.

“I wasn’t sure you still loved me. Not after everything. Not until this note. Then I knew those messages were from you.”

“I could never stop Edward. Heaven help me though I tried.”

Ed ran a hand across his cheek and Oswald’s eyes slid shut as he leant into the tender touch.

“I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes.”

Watery blues eyes opened to blink up at him with a tremulous smile.

“The bard Edward?”

“A good friend told me his stories were models for modern life.”

“Oh?” Oswald ran his hands up to the taller man’s shoulders. “Does that mean you intend to live in my heart and be buried in my eyes?”

“I believe I already have a place in your heart, and I certainly get lost in your eyes enough.” He smirked. “It was the third part I was hoping you might help me with.”

He couldn’t help his gasp as Edward’s arms suddenly wrapped tighter round him.

“I think that might be arranged my dear.”

Any other words quickly became superfluous as they found better uses for their mouths.


End file.
